


The Magical Lure of the Japadog

by dreaminthepast



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: 2010 Winter Olympics, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-17
Packaged: 2018-11-01 21:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930125
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreaminthepast/pseuds/dreaminthepast
Summary: There is something a-twinkle in the Olympic Village.  But can Johnny convince Patrick of that?





	The Magical Lure of the Japadog

**Author's Note:**

> For everyone who loves men's figure skating and adorableness. All of the regular disclaimers apply though I would love to have a tiny patrick chan of my very own to keep in my pocket. All cultural / olympic references were exploited with joking love and my warped sense of Canadian Patriotism.

The cafeteria tray plops itself down on the opposite side of his table, plates and bowls large enough to put the men’s bobsleigh team to shame, and that’s who he expects to see when he lifts his eyes to whoever felt like inviting themselves to his table for one. But what he finds instead could instantly be described as less muscle, but a whole lot of pizzazz.  
  
The Olympic Village is awash with people and seating is at a premium but he was sure he had found the last known bastion of the cafeteria, an endless wasteland of easy clean ceramic tile that no-one would dare be caught sitting in.  
  
Apparently he had been mistaken.  
  
The smile that greets him is blinding and for a minute he contemplates pulling the sunglasses down from their perch on his head. He’s not quite sure which is more disturbing the way the lunch-crasher is licking his lips, or the impact it has on his brain.  
  
“You’ve got some pretty fancy moves out there kid,” his voice is jovial, melodic.  
  
“Thanks, I…”  
  
“But your costumes suck.”  
  
“I … excuse me?” Patrick arches an eyebrow.  
  
“They’re a little dull. I mean, that’s fine if you’re say The King of Russia, and if you ask me his bedroom tactics don’t stray too far from that mark either, but you could do better; you’re too young and adorable for all that … drabness. “  
  
There’s a wave of a hand that seems to make a wax on, but not a wax off motion before the whole idea seems forgotten and the man turns to eating his lunch for three; and how does he stay so skinny anyway?  
  
“I…what?” Patrick is finding it hard to come up with something to say, and he always knows what to say. “Do I know you?”  
  
“Johnny Wier, three time U.S National Champion? We’ve only been sharing the same ice for like over a week.”  
  
There is fork waving, and Patrick thinks there may be imitation potato salad on his forehead.

  
“Right, you’re the guy who keeps staring at me.”

  
Patrick scowls because, in all honesty, it’s a bit scary; a cross between that look his mother gives him when he leaves the car low on gas, and the way Kim Yoona looks at him in the halls of the Pacific Coliseum.  
  
“I’m not staring,” Johnny smiles, “I’m stalking choice prey.”  
  
_Prey_ Patrick mouths back like a floppy fish in the bottom of a boat. “I don’t…wait…”  
  
With a wave of an empty tray and what Patrick will later swear was a flourish of sparkles the man disappears into the blur of bodies. Patrick scowls more. There was nothing in the _Host Nation Handbook_ on how to deal with these types of cultural situation. Just because he speaks three languages and looks like he’s good at math doesn’t mean he speaks crazy.  
  
He rubs the spot in-between his eyes. It could have been worse he supposes, it could have been his mother and Kim Yoona.  
  
... /// ...  
  
_A Zamboni uses water at 140*F and is very slow,_ Patrick thinks, but is thanking even Buddha that he had not chosen speed skating and this is _not_ the Olympic Oval and at least their Zamboni actually does what it’s supposed to.  
  
He had come down for practice just in time to catch the pairs taking their turns on the slippery surface that is more like his lover than his battleground. It was nice to be alone, lacing up his skates in the peaceful quiet, the Zen of the warm up bench, like he’s back in Toronto spinning at centre ice just because he can.  
  
Just close your eyes and feel the air.  
  
“Hey Babe, knew I’d find you here!”  
  
It’s like the moment when two transport trucks collide at top speed, things explode, and he jumps four feet in the air. That fleeting moment of Zen is gone, and since when did five minutes of cafeteria conversation promote him to the level of babe? And really, he should be more disturbed by this than he really is right?  
  
“Hi Johnny,” Patrick smiles _that_ smile, the cute, adorable, perfected for two weeks in-front of the mirror for every CTV Olympic coverage interview smile.  
  
“I brought you a cookie, chocolate chip. Your fans say it’s your favourite.”  
  
Johnny’s smile is genuine and Patrick can feel his heart go a little gooey around the edges.  
  
_Damn it._  
  
He takes the cookie, mumbling thanks around the crumbs as the other man produces one of his own and takes a big bite.  
  
“They’re pretty tasty.”  
  
“They better be. I pinched them from Lysacek. He won’t miss them anyway. So have you thought about what I said?”  
  
Johnny’s fingers brush at his bottom lip. He can feel the small granules of cookie tumble from his skin but the scratch is undermined by the softness of the other man’s fingers. When Johnny pulls away Patrick licks his lips without thinking. He stares back like one of those puppies you see on one of those commercials. _He really needs to remember how to talk,_ he thinks scolding himself.  
  
“The costumes? You know I make all of my own. I’m offering my services, you should really think about it.”  
  
Patrick’s brain focuses on _services_ and if he had any of his cookie left he would be trying to hide in its limited chocolate-chippiness, but that’s just as big a pipe dream as not blushing.  
  
Does he even look good in red? He’s sure Johnny would tell him either way.  
But then again, it could be worse, he could be choking.  
  
“I …”  
  
“Do you have your measurements? Or, I could do it. You know where I’m staying in the village right?”  
  
“Um, yeah, services… I mean skating! Skating, I have to skate,” Patrick squeaks and honestly where is Scott Oake when he needs him?  
  
Patrick bolts for the ice in a flash of black, bed head, and slightly miss-matched eyes mumbling in Cantonese because it’s really just a default setting when being confronted by “oh my god,” situations, and this is _totally_ one of those situations.  
  
... /// ...  
  
“I want to be one too you know.”  
  
The purr rounds his ear and he jumps.  
  
It had been a few days of blessed alone-ness but it only served to apparently give Johnny time to step up his game. At first Patrick thought it was all a ploy to rattle his nerves, or his mom secretly telling him he should take up meditating, but then there was _evidence._  
  
Film never lies.  
  
It liked to take every opportunity to tell him how ingloriously he fell on his ass, but it also mocked him by showing him just how openly Johnny stared at him during pretty much every competition in the season.  
  
It made his brain all fuzzy and his coach yell at him for skating into the boards more than once. He had locked himself in his room for the rest of the day, and well into the next.

  
Patrick swallows, “excuse me?”  
  
“Your fan, I want to be one.”  
  
“Oh, sure … I guess… I think there’s some sort of club or something?”  
  
“You are just too cute Patrick Chan.”  
  
Patrick swallows. _Just like you practiced._  
  
“Look Johnny … I”  
  
“Shhh, don’t say anything.”  
  
The same fingers from what Patrick will later recall to his friends as “that time Johnny Weir gave me a cookie,” brush over his lips, putting a halt to the 90% probability of him embarrassing himself totally, or at the very least the 65% chance of him not saying anything at all.  
  
“Did you know at 3.46 a.m. there is a still in the air and if you cross the compound in exactly fourteen easy strides the line up for a Japadog is only six people long?”  
  
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!” Patrick can’t help but laugh at the absurdity of the fable.  
  
“Oh, small boy of feeble heart, meet me at 3.44 and I’ll show you magic.”  
  
... /// ...  
  
“You came.”  
  
Surprisingly, Johnny is dressed mostly in black and Patrick can barely make him out as he approaches. He looks different and Patrick finds that he likes the easily worn designer jeans and simple jacket, yet at the same time is a little disappointed by the lack of sparkle, sequent or bejewel. He’s beginning to enjoy what he can only describe to his friends back home as “his stalker’s bat-shit insane personality and Ga-Ga-esque sense of costuming.”  
  
“I … I really shouldn’t be out so late this close to the competition.”  
  
“Oh come on, live a little. How can you not feel a kindred spirit to the Japadog?”  
  
“My family’s Chinese?”  
  
“Um, ok. That’s not what I meant, but if we don’t go now I may have to start killing people.”  
  
There is a snap of fingers that Patrick thinks could strike fear into the heart of any man, gay or straight and he swallows, moving quickly. Being involved in anything that involves blood, or the thought of, makes him squeamish and he’s pretty sure his mom would give him _that_ look if he were arrested for being involved in anything that involved death by neon pink.  
  
The six people in-front of them stare quietly and Patrick wonders if he has something caught in-between his teeth. Johnny is smiling like Costco had florescent pink bath towels on sale, and did he just clap his hands in giddiness?  
  
Patrick can only laugh at the scene, the revelry of the Olympic village. He didn’t think Johnny was serious. A round of O Canada wafts in from somewhere, drunk and off-key, but tear-wrenchingly patriotic non-the-less for a day other than the first of July.  
  
“See,” Johnny smirks, “the magic of the Olympic Village. It must be all that good Canadian snow, though I’m disappointed by the lack of igloos.”  
  
Patrick laughs and they eat their Japadogs while sitting under the stars. He tries not to glance over too many times but its hard not to when Johnny is talking about his triumphant conquest of Bouclair and how they really should hire better interior decorators if they are going to displace this many homeless people and spend that much money on stucco.  
  
The moon lingers and Patrick feels secure that he’ll make it out of the Olympic Village with his honour intact when he’s secretly thwarted by the treacherous mayo sticking to his lip and his utter fail in the napkin department.  
  
It’s like one of those horrible romantic comedies that his friends watch, but it happens just like that he swears, all slow motion with the lean and the head tilt except his eyes don’t close and Johnny is kissing him too quickly, stealing the left over condiment from his lip before retreating.  
  
It’s over, just like that.  
  
“Good night Patrick Chan my adorable yet ill-fated opponent of the triple axel. I will see you on the battlefield.”  
  
He thinks it’s a little over-dramatic, even for Johnny, but the kiss was nice and he feels a little sad that Johnny is walking away, throwing his napkin in the trash and disappearing into the crowd.  
  
... /// ...  
  
“It’s a nice song, even if it is about us burning down your central place of government,” Patrick flops down beside his sparkly counterpart. He refuses to mask the lean into the other man’s side. He’s tired, and angry, and disappointed, and fed up with dealing with cameras, and microphones, and interview type people with plastic squares that give them permission to hunt him like wild game. He figures Johnny won’t mind the extra weight. They did bond over the magic of the Japadog after all.  
  
Johnny just frowns, his usual banter silenced by the sting of defeat.  
  
It causes Patrick to swallow. Johnny looks as crushed as he feels and that’s a lot. They just sit there, watching, Patrick’s mind swirling, recounting, replaying, until he thinks _to hell with it, his mom and Kim Yoona be damned._  
  
He slips his hand into Johnny’s curling his fingers, committing to the clasp of digits, and twists his body kissing Johnny shyly on the cheek.  
  
When he pulls away Johnny is looking at him with shocked smugness. Patrick puts on his best _‘you better love me because I’m the most adorable thing you’ll ever see’_ smile and begins to stand.  
  
“Come on, I know this place where they sell really great chocolate chip cookies and you can tell me your costume ideas and how cute I am with latte foam on my nose.”  
  
~fin~


End file.
